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Mom waits for me at the gate in La Jarra. She takes one look at me and pulls me in for a hug.
I let her, filling all my senses with home. The lilting, musical cadence of the island dialects cuts through the general noise. The smell of sun and sea air clings to everyone’s clothes. The tourists chatter with their nervous energy, and the locals take their bags to taxis, happy with their shopping finds.
But it’s not the same as when I left. Life here feels different without Tillie.
Mom drives me to her house, filling the quiet with idle chatter. “And then the entire bachelorette party decides to buy every one of myFuck ordinarycandles. I spent all day yesterday making more.”
When I fail to respond with so much as a grunt to the last part, she reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Tell me about Anita. I got your texts, but I want to hear about her in your own voice.”
She parks in front of the peach wood-slat house where I grew up. I duck out of her car and wait until we’re inside to start talking.
I set my backpack on the coffee table. “She expected I would show eventually. Her uncle did a DNA test, and she figured it was only a matter of time until her abandoned son came looking for her.”
Mom opens kitchen cabinets as I settle in a straight-backed chair at the table I’ve eaten at since I could hold a spoon. “That’s interesting. Are you going to do the test to find your father?”
“I don’t think so. He never knew Anita was pregnant.”
“Right.” Mom takes down a loaf of bread and opens the end. “So you’re absolving him?”
“No. But there’s no point finding him. He abandoned her after she upended her life to come here based on his idea. I doubt he’d have been father material.”
“That must have been quite a blow for her to come here alone only to discover she’s pregnant.”
“It was. She had no family to rely on, at least none she wanted. But she was probably never going to be a permanent resident. She was only seasonal. Based on what she said about how locals felt about her, plus what you’ve told me, I’m not sure anyone would have sponsored her for a long-term work permit.”
“Probably not. We did talk about that in the hospital.” She pulls a stick of butter and a block of white cheddar from the fridge. Grilled cheese. She knows my comfort food. She is the source. Unlike Anita, who chose to know nothing.
No, that’s not true. She did look later. She just didn’t know how to find me without the right name.
“Did anything she say resonate with you? Make you pause? Maybe you’re still thinking about it?” Mom asks.
“I don’t get the sense that she loved me. Only that she didn’t know how to take care of me. She was stuck with no one to help her.”
Mom lays a slice of bread in the pan. “I was there, Gabe. The way she looked at you was no different than any mother in that maternity ward looked at her child. She suffered with her decision. And she’s had to live with it.”
This is more than Mom has said before about Anita. My whole life she’s surrounded me with her love and told me I was a miracle given to her by a woman who wasn’t able to care for me.
But not that it had been a hard decision.
Mom layers cheese and bread. “All of this happened for a reason. You met Tillie to convince you to see Anita, and for Anita, in turn, to give you the most important advice of your life.”
“Not to abandon your kid?”
Mom turns. “To know that if you willingly give up something you love, you can survive it, but you will carry the feeling with you all your life.”
My heart thunders to my shoes. She means Tillie.
But there is no way out of this. Tillie and I went over it again and again. The feeling of being licked by fire comes over me again. This is too much. I want my old way. The island way. Aimless. Easy. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes to rub away these concerns.
The aroma of toast and melted cheese brings me a sense of calm. That’s why Mom makes candles. Smells are the real powerhouse in memory and emotion. When she mixes scents into her wax, she’s hoping to bring about the feelings that will push the action. Fuck anger. Fuck misery. Fuck feeling stuck.
We don’t say anything else until Mom sits across from me and slides the plate and a glass of swanky across the table. “Your favorite.”
I nod. Funny how not hungry I felt all the way home, and now that she’s put this food in front of me, I’m ready to devour it.
Maybe Anya’s right. She’s a little bit health nut and a whole lot witchy.
“I think you should hang on to Anita’s information,” she says. “Do something light. Maybe send her a Christmas card each year. Hold the line open, but not necessarily move unless you feel ready.”
